could find any footing, “then our emissary must be prepared to ride all the way to Caer MacDonald.”
“Yes,” said the same sarcastic fisherman, “to the throne seat, to beg that our needs not be ignored.”
The proctor of Gybi did not miss the vicious tone of the voice. Many of the locals had voiced their opposition to the anointment of the mysterious Brind’Amour as king of Eriador, declaring that Byllewyn, the long-standing proctor of Gybi, would be the better choice. That sentiment had been echoed across much of northeastern Eriador, but the movement had never gained much momentum since Byllewyn himself had put an end to the talk. He wondered now, given the grim mood, how long it would be before he would be dissuading similar opinions once more.
“Caer MacDonald, then!” another man growled. “Let us see if our newly proclaimed king has any bite in him.”
“Here, here!” came the agreeing chorus, and Byllewyn sat back thoughtfully in his chair, his fingertips tapping together before his eyes. He didn’t doubt that Brind’Amour—that anyone who could wrest control from Greensparrow—had bite, but he was also pragmatic enough to realize that, with the kingdoms separate once more, many ancient enemies, Huegoth and cyclopian, might indeed see Eriador as vulnerable. The arrival of Huegoths would be a major test for Brind’Amour, one that the new king could not afford to fail.
The proctor of Gybi, a man of small ambition and generous heart, would pray for him.
CHAPTER 5
SOUGLES’S GLEN
AH, WE’LL BE EATING WELL when the money starts a’flowing outa Caer MacDonald!” exclaimed Sougles Bellbanger, a rugged dwarf with hair and beard the color of rich tea. He hoisted his flagon high into the crisp night air.
Ten of his fellows, sitting about a huge bonfire, did likewise, all looking to the stars shining brightly and clearly visible through the break in the forest above this small glen.
“Keep it quiet!” yelled yet another of the bearded folk, who was curled up on a bedroll not so far away. Beside him, a dwarf snored loudly, and so when his call to the partying group at the fire went unnoticed, he slapped the snoring dwarf instead, just for the satisfaction.
“Sleeping on this night!” Sougles howled derisively. “Plenty of time for that after we’ve sold our goods.”
“After we’ve spent the gold we’ve got for selling our goods!” corrected one of the others, and again, the mugs came up high into the air.
“And after we get the gold, you’ll all be too weary to spend it properly,” grumbled the dwarf from the bedroll. “And I’ll be helping meself, thank you.”
That brought still more wild cheering from the gathering at the fire, along with many snorts. They were tough and ready dwarfs of DunDarrow; they could party all this night, go into the little settlement—Menster, it was called—in the morning, then spend the rest of the day selling their goods and quickly giving back most of the gold to the folk of Menster in exchange for ale and good food, and then comfortable lodgings before they made their trek back into the mountains to the nearest entrances of DunDarrow. That was the way it would work, now that Brind’Amour was king, now that Bellick dan Burso was in Caer MacDonald signing a pact to make Eriador and DunDarrow as one.
And so they partied, howled and drank, tore off huge chunks of venison and threw the bones at the complainer in the bedroll. It went on most of the night, ending only in surprise as a ragged human, bleeding from the forehead, stumbled into camp.
Up came the dwarfs and out came their weapons, huge axes, short, thick swords, and heavy hammers that could spin through the air and take down a target at thirty paces.
The man, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, stumbled further, nearly tripping headlong into the fire. Two dwarfs had him in an instant, propping him by the arms.
“What’re you about?” demanded Sougles.
The man whispered something too low for the dwarf to hear, considering the grumbling conversations erupting all about. Sougles called for quiet and moved closer, cocking his head to put his ear in line with the man’s lips.
“Menster,” the man repeated.
“Menster?” Sougles asked loudly, and the word hushed his fellows. “What about Menster?”
“Them,” whispered the man, and he slumped.
“Them?” Sougles asked loudly, turning to his companions.
“Them!” one of the dwarfs yelled in response, pointing to the dark line of trees, to the bulky shapes moving within those shadows.
In all of Avonsea, in all the world, no two races hated